


Sun Soaked and Honeysweet

by Jaydee_Faire



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Beekeeping, Bees, Canon Disabled Character, Gen, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Other, Rehabilitation, SHEITH - Freeform, Soulmates, Veterans, i guess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 11:34:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29367852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaydee_Faire/pseuds/Jaydee_Faire
Summary: Shiro tends beehives as part of a rehabilitation program for veterans with PTSD.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20





	Sun Soaked and Honeysweet

**Author's Note:**

> I'm aware that all of the "workers" in a beehive are female. This is a story about Keith being a bee, a little creative rearranging of bee genders is allowed.

On a bright, sunny Sunday afternoon, standing beside a beehive in the center of a field of lavender, Takashi Shirogane was elbow-deep in a box full of honeybees. 

Shiro really only wore the veil these days when he tended his hives. If you knew bees, which he did, there wasn't much danger in working unprotected. Bees in general were more concerned with tagging flowers, making honey, and getting whatever chores needed done around the hive than attacking the big, non-flower thing gently inspecting the racks. 

He liked bees for that reason. 

But even the most docile hive-dwellers were still curious, and to keep anyone from coming up to investigate the scent of his exhaling breath and landing themselves in trouble-- a bee in one's nostril was a bad time for everyone involved-- he kept the wide-brimmed hat and veil on. It discouraged all but the most determined of his fuzzy co-workers, and kept the sun out of his eyes as a bonus. 

It was also a subtle signal to the others on the farm-- the human ones, anyway-- that Shiro was At Work, and not to be disturbed. Despite his many impassioned speeches across the shared dinner table about the relative docility of honeybees, many of the other veterans at the co-op still behaved as if bees were one wrong move away from swarming someone and inflicting death by a thousand tiny pinpricks. That Shiro didn't go to tend his hives dressed as if he were going into space, as people did in the movies, cemented their opinion of him that his time in the military, and as a POW, had made him fearless if not reckless, and maybe a little bit crazy. 

Living on a working farm meant to treat and rehabilitate military veterans with severe PTSD, Shiro found that pretty stupid. But he kept his head down and his mind on his work, as he always did. Starting fights could get you thrown out of the program. Besides, it was just bees. And he liked the time alone.

He got along pretty well with most of the others in the program. About as well as he got along with anyone else, anyway. He did his share of the chores, attended group therapy, participated in whatever events the program leaders roped him into. Took his meds. Talked to the therapists and the social workers. Went to bed on time. Got up early. And did it all again. 

He knew, though, about the whispers that started behind his back as soon as he left a room. He knew about the rumors, knew about the stories, some of which were true. He knew that it was impossible to look at him, at the scars on his face and across his scalp, at the truncated stub of an arm with an empty sleeve folded neatly around it (or with the VA-provided prosthetic, made of weird smelling squeaky plastic with a metal hook on the end, which was worse), and not wonder if there were scars across his mind, too, if his sanity had a gap in it as wide as the streak in his hair and one day, if put under too much pressure, it would snap.

There was a rule against trading war stories in the common areas or in group. But no force on Earth could keep people from being people, and people found ways to talk. What he had been made to do while being held captive by the Galra wasn't any great secret. It had been on the news, for petessake. About once a month he got letters from so-and-so from such-and-such newspaper asking for an interview. You could tell your story, they always said. Tell the world what really happened.

What they really wanted to hear about was the blood. They wanted him to talk about the fighting, the experiments, the torture. 

They wanted to know if he was going to snap.

One wrong move, Shiro thought as he gently slotted one of the frames back into the hive. One wrong move, and docile Shiro the worker would become an unstoppable monster. Like an angry swarm of bees, there would be no reasoning with him once his instincts took over and turned him toward murder.

He shook his head, sighing. Never mind that a honeybee that stung someone often died of it afterward. Never mind that a "swarm" was usually trying to find someplace to make a home, not attack people. Never mind that though he checked the hives daily, he personally hadn't been stung in months, and that had been because he had wiped what he'd thought was a drop of sweat from the back of his neck and had been horrified when he'd felt the answering burning of a tiny creatures last, terrified attempt to protect itself and its family from harm. 

He'd taken the little corpse back to his room that day, sat on his bed, and wept. When he'd told his therapist about it, she'd nodded and said, "I understand that the bee made you upset."

She hadn't understood. Neither had he, not really. The next morning he had returned the bee to the hive, laying it near the entrance where its family came to inspect it, touching it gently with feelers, turning it over, and then bearing it away.

A spot wobbled past his field of vision, startling him out of his thoughts. He recognized the awkward bumble of a bee crawling across the inside of his veil, tiny feet getting caught in the mesh. It buzzed, then buzzed again, flailing its other legs and trying to free itself.

"Oop-- hold on, little guy, hold on a sec, I'll get you out." Shiro reached up to pull off his hat, the veil coming with it. Gingerly-- it was hard to be delicate with one hand and one VA-approved hook-- he turned the veil inside out, shaking it a little and then holding it up to look through it. 

The bee emerged from between two folds of mesh, still struggling to get its feet clear. Shiro stepped away from the hive, then brought his face as close to the bee as he could, trying to get his eyes to focus on something so small. Using his pinky finger, he nudged one of the bee's little hooked feet free of the mesh, then the other, then the last, and turned his hand over so it could climb up into his palm.

"There you go. Did we dent anything?" Shiro slowly rotated his hand as the bee crawled out of his palm and up his fingers. "Wings all right?"

The bee was... a bee. Big eyes, pointed face, striped body framed by legs heavy with pollen. It sat on the tip of his index finger, wings fluttering, and though Shiro knew, logically, that though bees had excellent vision they didn't "see" the way humans did and it couldn't be staring at him...

... It was.

Shiro smiled a little. "Have I got something in my teeth?" He curled his finger forward, expecting the bee to fly off, but it clung to him, clumsily rotating around and then back to the top to turn and face him again. "Alright, stay and take a breather. I don't mind."

He walked a few steps further away from the hive-- not wanting to disrupt their work any further-- and sat down among the lavender, still holding his hand in front of him. "Beautiful day, don't you think?" He could see the main buildings of the farm in the distance and, past that, the VA hospital. Past that, he knew, was the highway, and cars and people and gas stations and coffee shops and drive thru fast food joints and noise, noise, noise.

Here it was quiet, and, though he could faintly hear the rumble of diesel engines and the calling of the other vets as they went about their day, it was peaceful. To his left, the hive was a low, busy hum. To his right, lavender stalks waved in the breeze and bobbed as other bees bounced from flower to flower. And sitting on his hand, wings neatly folded, the little bee he'd rescued watched him silently.

Shiro took a breath. "So," he asked softly, "...ya like jazz?"

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! Because of my own severe depression and PTSD, I am currently struggling to make ends meet. You can find links to places where you can help at jaydeefaire.carrd.co. 
> 
> Notes about the content of this fic:   
> Although I am not a military veteran and have never been in the service, I grew up surrounded by vets and volunteered for the VA for many years as well as assisted in getting disabled vets their benefits (by doing typing and clerical work for a lawyer who was also a disabled vet with PTSD). In this work of fiction there was no intent to romanticize, glorify, minimize or otherwise malign the experiences of real-life veterans and/or former POWs suffering from mental illness. In this fic I used my own experiences as a person who suffers from PTSD and who has been in various treatment programs, both inpatient and outpatient, to write about Shiro and his time on the working farm.
> 
> That being said, I absolutely meant to throw shade at the United States VA because fuck those guys.


End file.
